


Lipstick Stains and Miles To Go

by AkumaStrife



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, road trip au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to just be a road trip. But somehow it felt like more. Had the air of finality about it. Erica didn’t have much to begin with, but Allison packed as if she wasn’t coming back. Just in case. </p><p>They don’t tell anyone. They don’t leave a note. They grab a few maps and fill the car and punch it towards the city limits, the whole country laid out before them for the taking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lipstick Stains and Miles To Go

They leave in the middle of the night in Allison’s car with as much of their stuff possible crammed in the trunk, some of it spilling into the back seats around Erica. Allison giggles with excitement as she tears out of the driveway, and Erica leans forward between the two front seats—grinning wicked with her eyes nightlight bright. 

It’d been her idea in the first place. _As soon as we graduate_ , Erica had said. _Fuck Derek’s training and fuck the guys and fuck college. Let’s just take off._  

Lydia was game as long as it was classy. No sleeping in the car and no burgers for every single meal—their life is not some TV show, thank you very much. 

Allison waffled all last semester. But then the acceptance letters started coming. And her father’s “when you take over the family business” talks. She hadn’t decided she needed to get the fuck out of dodge until 48 hours prior, and it’d become a mad dash of collecting stuff and transferring funds. 

It was supposed to just be a road trip. But somehow it felt like more. Had the air of finality about it. Erica didn’t have much to begin with, but Allison packed as if she wasn’t coming back. Just in case. 

They don’t tell anyone. They don’t leave a note. They grab a few maps and fill the car and punch it towards the city limits, the whole country laid out before them for the taking. 

They drive all that first night, switching off every couple of hours to stay awake together. They want to get out and far enough away before anyone notices. Far enough that they can’t be tracked. It’s none of anyone else’s business anyways.

 

* * *

 

By lunch it’s Allison who gets the first call. They’d stacked their phones on the diner table next to the salt, making a game of guessing who’d call first (although it’s not really a surprise). 

They watch it rattle. Allison glances to Erica, who arches an eyebrow in challenge. 

Allison returns a small smile and reaches for the phone, watching the disappointment flicker in the beta’s eyes. And then she turns it off completely. The glittering smile that breaks out across Erica’s face is worth her father’s anger.

 

* * *

 

The first motel that night is small to conserve funds, and there’s one queen sized bed and a tv with twelve channels and a bathroom with a fan that kicks off every five minutes. They double team Allison until they’re dangerously close to getting reported to the front desk, but by that time she can barely think straight, doesn’t have enough brain cells to feel remorse for the seventeen missed calls and twenty-two texts. 

Erica’s phone is completely silent.

 

* * *

 

They spend a night out on the beach. The moon gleams a clear silver and the stars bright. Allison doesn’t mind finding sand everywhere in exchange for Erica snuggled into her back, nose buried in her neck and hair, and Lydia curled into her chest. 

It’s dark and quiet, and the air cool. 

Erica tells them a fairytale neither have heard before. One about a female Dragonlord with hair the color of a dying star, and gory battles, and a prince who dies before his time. A handmaiden who saves her princess more times than fireflies in the marshes during the Great Purge. A dying forest that strikes back and rebuilds itself gorging on the flesh of its destroyers, until the trees grow damp and a muddy red and the creatures turn volatile and look out at the world with deep, wide eyes. 

The ocean lulls them to sleep.

 

* * *

 

It becomes very apparent, very quickly, that Erica eats more than their budget can comfortably allow. She eats enough for three often, and they’re a week in when Lydia gets that look on her face that usually means she’s solved a prize winning problem. Erica’s appetite _is_ a problem of such proportion. It became a problem when they had to stop at a superstore to pick up a punchbowl for Erica’s cereal consumption 

“I’m hungry,” Erica whines, and Allison giggles and rolls her eyes, because Erica’s always hungry. She’s been complaining for over an hour now, but Lydia grips the steering wheel with white knuckles and pointedly does not respond. 

“C’mon Lyds,” she tries again, leaning up between the seats and pushing her face into the nape of the other girl’s neck. “Baby, I’m hungry, you know werewolves gotta eat more than normal. I’m d—“ 

Lydia laughs once, humorless. “You are not _dying_ , so don’t even try that melodrama on me. You’re going to sit back and shut up, and trust me to take care of it because I do have a plan.” 

Erica makes a sound between a growl and a purr in her throat and presses hot, open mouth kisses to Lydia’s neck, biting at the soft skin leading up to her ear. “I love it when you get bossy. Oh, there goes your pulse.” 

“Allison?” Lydia prompts a bit a breathless, and Allison grins wickedly. 

“On it.” She unbuckles her seatbelt and climbs into the back seat, pushing Erica onto her back and thoroughly distracts her so Lydia can drive in peace. Barely an hour later they pull into a parking lot for a local diner and Erica and Allison sit up in confusion, their make up smudged and hair a complete mess. 

“Where are we?” Allison asks, trying to look for a sign. 

“Lunch.” 

Erica spots it the moment they open their menus, and she’s grinning at Lydia like she wants to eat _her._ (She will, much later when they’ve found a motel that gives them a discount once the pimpled boy behind the counter gets an eyeful of what pushup bras can do)

“Hello, ladies, can I start you off with some drinks on this lovely day?” their waitress asks. 

Erica leers up at her, and the girl blushes. “Three cokes. I don’t know what my girls are gonna have, but I’ll do the Murder Mistress.” 

The place goes silent. Their waitress looks at Erica’s tapered waist and flat stomach doubtfully, but takes a reflexive step back when Erica’s lips twist in mean smile. “Sure thing. I have to warn you though, it’s fifty dollars if you can’t do it.” 

“There’s very few things I can’t do, sugartits,” she says, patronizing and suggestive all rolled into one; Lydia digs her shoe into her foot. “And I’m pretty hungry. Haven’t eaten since breakfast.” 

When the plate comes, the whole diner is watching its path. A 44oz steak, loaded baked potato, a pile of steamed veggies, and a thick slice of cherry pie buried under vanilla ice cream. Erica smiles up at the waitress like Christmas has come early, and asks, “How long do I have?” 

“One hour,” she says, and places the timer next to the oversized plate. Erica pulls the dessert in front of her and attacks that first. “Don’t want the ice cream to melt,” she mutters around a large bite and Lydia rolls her eyes.

“You just want to eat dessert first because you’re a child.” 

Erica plants a messy kiss on Lydia’s cheek and Allison giggles at Lydia’s gasp of disgust. 

When the timer goes off, Erica has licked both plates clean and is picking at Allison’s fries. 

She gets a standing ovation. 

After that, they try to stick to place with “all-you-can-eat-buffet” deals and “eat-it-all-get-it-free” challenges. They always leave with the employees shaking their heads in awe.

 

* * *

 

Lydia and Erica fuck in a grimy gas station bathroom. Lydia gets pushed down on her knees, and Erica grins down at her and tells her how much it turns her on to see the princess get her hands dirty. 

Lydia quips that if Erica doesn’t get _her_ hands dirty after this, they’re going to have some problems. 

Erica’s laugh scares off someone coming into the bathroom. She makes good on her promise. 

Later Lydia makes her lick the bruises on her knees. 

 

* * *

 

Lydia demands they take a lot of pictures. They snap photos of the other two snuggled in the back seat, and every diner and coffee stand they stop at. They take pictures outside and in the motels and at colorful street markets, and of Lydia painting her toenails against the dash of the car. They splurge for fireworks one night and trade up a real bed and shower for a field with wildflowers and fireflies and a bonfire to make s’mores over.

Allison takes videos with Lydia’s phone. You can hardly hear them sometimes—Lydia in Erica’s lap as she toasts the absolutely perfect marshmallows—because of how much they’re laughing and how loud the fireworks are. 

They take pictures of strange people and weird looking animals and beautiful plants, and Erica starts an album just of all the unfairly attractive people they find. There are terrible selfies in dressing rooms and fancy bathrooms. There’s even a few of Allison’s flushed cheeks and Erica’s eyes glowing too brightly for the camera to pick up; their soft curves and angles tangled together in a bathtub with the lighting just-so in a way that makes it all seem like a flower-scented dream.

They take photos while getting ready for a club that Erica thinks looks fun. They take a few during, but are too busy flashing their fake ID’s for alcohol and dancing and chasing off sleazy guys who’s hands and eyes wander too much for Erica’s liking and she flashes a little fang to loudly state what’s hers and that her girls aren’t to be touched. By the end of the night their make up is smudged and their skin shimmering from the other dancers. 

They take quiet pictures before the dawn and photos bursting with forever immortalized energy at twilight.

 

* * *

 

Lydia’s parents call every once in a while. 

She never answers. 

Eventually they stop all together.

 

* * *

 

They drive by a carnival one weekend, one that’s grandiose and much bigger than any of the ones that’ve come through Beacon Hills. It lights up the night sky and streets for blocks around. Allison even spots a circus tent towards the back side.

Erica and Allison harass Lydia until she stops, rolling her eyes and pulling a put-upon expression. But she knows she’ll have fun. There’s a ATM in a gas station just down the road, and Allison and Lydia take out significant chunks of their checking accounts. It’s not often they find places like these, and Erica hasn’t shut up about _living in the moment_ since they left California. 

Allison drags them on the ferris wheel where they proceed to gross out no less than five children and their parents. They eat their weight in greasy food and Erica unsurprisingly fond of the chocolate-dipped bacon. Allison buys a wide knit shawl for their frequent midnight adventures, while Lydia becomes best friends with the snow-cone vendors. 

Erica considers it a crime _not_ to play the games, given her heightened abilities, and wins Allison a plush falcon, and Lydia a floppy leopard toy with silky fur. She also wins them a five hundred dollar gas card, and she gets a particularly filthy kiss from Allison in thanks. Lydia stops her from winning all the other prize, with a deceptively firm hand on her wrist, mostly because carnival security have taken an interest in their winning streak. 

It’s like time has stopped. The carnival almost outside of reality; situated on an adjacent plane of existence. Because they keep hitting booths and shows and eating terribly delicious food, but the crowds never wane and it has to be hours since they arrived, but the sky does not change color and they can’t bring themselves to check the time. 

Whether it’s magic or not, it’s none of their business. Allison is firm on this. She left Beacon Hills to be normal, or as normal as she can be, and wants nothing to do with whatever mysterious force keeps this carnival going. She just wants to watch the circus’ next show and then get moving.

 

* * *

 

Erica teaches them how to shoplift.

Allison finds herself becoming addicted to adrenaline. Maybe she was born to be a hunter after all. Maybe that’s the only path her life _can_ take. The thought makes her angry. She nicks six bottles of nail polish and a tube of mascara and a pair of Wonder Woman underwear. 

She ties Erica’s hands to the shitty motel bed-frame and doesn’t let her come for three hours.

 

* * *

 

They get lost in the completely wrong state. The desert all looks the same and Erica’s been neglecting the map in favor of slipping her hand into Lydia’s pants as she drives. 

Allison blames both of them equally.

 

* * *

 

They collect postcards and fill them out with stories and mishaps, always sending them all at once in a large envelope with a handful of pictures, sometimes in front of funny signs or in their pajamas with handwritten signs to their boys. They try to include souvenirs too. They zigzag across the states, and don’t travel in a straight line, often backtracking, so that when they send their postcards in bulk, they can’t be tracked. 

They always send the bundles to Derek first, to make sure the pack gets to see it all, before someone takes it to Allison’s dad. He texts her every other day, to tell her good morning or that he loves her or how the pack’s doing. 

She never texts him back. 

Sometimes she cries. 

But Lydia’s always there to stroke her hair and Erica will curl around her. And she needs this. She needs this time away, this time to herself to find out what she really wants and what she’s really capable of. It says a lot how steady she can hold a weapon in the face of danger, but she doesn’t exactly like what it says. It says a lot that she knows more about tactics and _murder_ than how to deal with hangovers and what college she wants to go to and _what she wants to be when she grows up_. She’s already grown up but she doesn’t know how to be anything other than a hunter; she’s doing everything backwards and out of order and she hates it. 

She needs this time separated from her father. 

 

* * *

 

Eventually they run out of clean clothes. Eventually they get tired and hot and irritable and are going to wolf-out if they have to spend another sticky afternoon in a fluorescent laundromat, surrounded by hyper children screaming in foreign languages.  

They drive to the nearest mall and Erica starts to fidget, pointedly _not_ look at her incredibly thin wallet. Lydia rolls her eyes as she throws the car into park. Half-turning in the seat she grabs the collar of Erica’s jacket and yanks her forward so she can kiss the unease out of her, leaving her flushed and breathless and more than slightly confused. 

Lydia wiggles her parent’s credit card out of the back pocket of her purse and her grin is nothing short of feral. She told herself, when they’d started all this, that she wasn’t going to use it, that she didn’t need their help when she’d come this far relying on only herself and therefore she could do this too. But why shouldn’t she? They wouldn’t miss the money. They probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone.

They owed her at least this. 

They shove everything but their absolute favorite pieces of clothing into the large trash bin outside the front entrance. They make a game of it, buying only one or two things at each store, but making sure to hit every store in the mall. The bags add up quickly. 

They buy out Victoria Secret. Then they get kicked out for public indecency, although Erica doesn’t think the public part is accurate when they were caught in the dressing room.

 

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in the midwest, Erica sniffs out a barbecue. There’s balloons up and down the street and cars parked in every available spot. They’re tired and hungry and broke, and it’s not that hard slipping into the crowded back yard; smiling easily at strangers and letting their eyes wander as if they’re looking for someone in particular, piling food onto paper plates. Lydia’s stomach had never ached like this before. 

Allison’s nervous, of course—flushed and jumpy. She’d tried to talk them out of it because _what if we’re caught and they call the police_ and _seriously how do you blend in with an entire family._  

Lydia shows her how by smiling charmingly at the faintly unsure hostess, shaking her hand with a deceptively strong grip and congratulating her thoroughly. 

Erica plops herself in the lap of a college-aged boy with a deep suntan and his sunglasses hooked on the back of his hat— _for the cause_ she explains later—and people stop asking questions. 

Midwest families tend to be big and very welcoming—Allison knows this because they lived around here once, and she knows if they’d knocked on the front door and explained their situation, someone would’ve cooed and waved them in frantically, admonishing the thinness of their arms and making disapproving noise at their families sending them with so little. With this in mind, she only feels a little bad when, helping the host family with cleanup near the end of the party (she still hasn’t figured out for what), she smuggles a few packed tupperwear out with her. The baked beans and potato salad had been mouthwatering, and Erica really enjoyed the ribs. 

They’d appreciate it more than the family would anyways.

 

* * *

 

They get a flat tire out on the interstate. Allison’s about to call the auto-shop they passed many miles back, when Erica puts a hand over hers and makes a disapproving sound. “Oh honey, there’s no need for that.”

Lydia’s already applying a shocking shade of red lipstick in the passenger mirror. She smacks her lips and hums happily, tossing the tube to Erica as she hops out of the car. “Get cute, Allison.” She perches on the edge of the trunk and adopts a full body pout. 

Erica’s wearing a tiny pair of denim shorts, and pops the hood so she can bend over inside it. It must be the universal sign for help, because they get no less than seven offers in forty-five minutes, and make it out with a freshly changed tire, a spare for the trunk, a case of bottled water, several bags of fast food leftovers, and no shortage of numbers with addresses. 

“And that’s how you change a tire,” Lydia says, climbing back into the passenger seat and unfolding the map.

“But we all know how to change a tire,” Allison says, rueful and just a little bit pleased with how much attention and offers of broken-in jackets a messy bun and tank top gets her.

 “So?” Erica says, merging back onto the interstate. “Why do it yourself when you can get a pack of slobbering dogs to do it for you?” She laughs at her own joke. 

 

* * * 

It’s fucking hot. 

The sun is burning a hole through the ozone to personally kill them. The road shimmers with heat and Erica’s already stripped down to her underwear in the passenger seat. Allison breathes shallowly in the back, the warmth like a humid, physical weight in the air. 

They don’t even remember where they are. Some state near Alabama by the feel of it. 

It wouldn’t be so bad if the AC hadn’t ground to a sputtering halt two days back, and according to the map that sticks to Erica’s damp skin, they’re not going to hit civilization for another twelve hours if they don’t stop. 

But they do stop, because out in middle of nowhere is a little tourist town that Erica missed on the map. Except it can’t be that little because there’s a pretty good sized mall and a small college and even a fancy as all get out hotel. 

They’re hot and hungry and strapped for cash, and they really need to shower. Lydia leads them into the hotel and ignores the hesitation in Allison’s demeanor. 

Allison’s not sure how Lydia does it, but she charms and makes vague statements and asks leading questions and acts flustered and grateful enough when prompted that they end up in a master suite up on the seventeenth floor. 

“Damn, Mrs. Carson sure has it made,” Erica says. She drops her stuff on the striped coach and flops back into the king size bed, making obscene sounds as she rolls around and stretches. Lydia swats at her thighs until she gets off. 

“What do we do when she shows up?” Allison asks, only a little worried as she formulates escape plans, but her cheeks are flushed and she can’t help but giggle. 

Lydia shrugs and steps out of her clothes like a dancer, all fluid movements and smooth limbs. She starts the jacuzzi tub and begins mixing bubble bath and oils like the chemist she was born to be. “She’s not due to check in until tomorrow, so we’ll be fine.” And then she bends over the side to check the temperature, and Erica’s eyes flash. She comes up behind her, her nails already claws and expression hungry.

Their bath lasts four hours and by the time they drain the tub there’s almost as much water on the floor; Lydia satiated and Allison finally boneless and calm. Lydia demands to be carried to the bed, regal as ever, and Erica obliges happily. She kneads her fingers into Lydia’s soft skin, over the bruises and hickeys that are already forming—licks water droplets off her neck. 

Allison gingerly steps out to follow, but in a flash Erica is back and pushes her against the wall, hands tight and possessive on her hips, on her thighs, lifting her up and holding her there. She devours Allison’s already swollen and red lips, drinking in her giggles and shuddering sighs.

 

* * *

 

They’re somewhere in Georgia when they stop for gas a little past two in the morning. This whole road trip thing has wrecked their sleep patterns. They’re up more often than not, and usually sleep seventeen hours straight when they get motel rooms. Well, Erica does. Allison and Lydia sleep for around twelve like normal teenage girls and then spend the rest of the time watching netflix and getting each other off. 

They’re somewhere in Georgia when they gas up, take turns using the filthy restroom, and then pile back into the considerably weathered car with their snacks and sugary drinks, heading up the coast. It’s pretty quite for a while, only broken by the soft sound of the new playlist Lydia put together the day before. They cross into South Carolina and it’s not until Allison starts seeing signs for its northern counterpart that she thinks it’s a little _too_ quiet, and glances into the back seat. 

“Lydia.” 

Lydia hums in response, not looking up from the Times’ Sunday crossword. 

“Lydia, we might have a problem.”

She finally looks up with a slight scowl. They usually get along great together, but weeks and weeks being crammed in each other’s space can wear on a person. “What now?” 

“We… may have forgotten something important during that last stop in Georgia.” 

“I really don’t think we did, I checked our list twice and—“ 

“Erica. I’m talking about Erica.” 

Lydia slowly turns to peer into the blackness of the backseat. “Oh. Oops.” 

Allison shifts into a higher gear and the tires squeal as she forces the car into a tight U-turn. It’s not quite three hours when they pull back into the over-lit way-station. They’re not exactly _worried,_ she is a werewolf after all, but there’s still a hollow chill in Allison’s stomach. They’ll laugh about it later, she’s certain, but it’s the middle of the night, on the opposite side of the country, and they’re all sleep deprived. 

But Erica’s fine, of course. She’s leaning against the side of the quicky-mart, casual as can be, chatting up a biker gang. They’re all laughing and sharing their beer with Erica, and she looks like she’s having a grand old time. 

Allison is the first to jump out of the car. “Oh my god, there you are. I’m _so_ sorry.” 

Erica smirks and yanks her into a punishing kiss, one that makes Allison’s knees week and her fingertips numb.  The bikers whistle, but she doesn’t feel threatened by it, or objectified. Somehow. 

“Took you long enough,” Erica says, but she’s still grinning.

 

* * *

 

Without dipping into Lydia’s backup credit cards, they’re broke enough that they have to stop in a little country town and help set up and run a small autumn fair. The pay isn’t anything to sneeze at, and they get free food as long as they’re working. 

They make friends easy and spend almost a full week earning under the table cash and spending their nights sleeping in tents and drinking under strings of lights with kids like themselves. Some of them are going off to college soon, some shrug and don’t seem too worried about having no plan. 

Two of the boys are planning a trip like theirs, in the opposite direction.

Erica writes her details on a paper napkin and tells them that if they ever make it to Beacon Hills, to look them up. 

Lydia carefully doesn’t think about whether they’re even going back. 

Allison looks like she doesn’t want to. 

 

* * *

 

Allison doesn’t think she’s been this happy and at ease since before they moved to Beacon Hills.

 

* * *

 

The South sees a lot of guys trying to hit them up. Quit literally in some cases. The assholes that can’t take a rejection, those that feel threatened by Erica’s power and Lydia’s wit and Allison’s stone cold stare, threaten violence. They fling slurs and amass in groups that used to terrify Lydia. But they’re not defenseless, not when they have Erica. Not that she ever has to make good on her eager smirks and rigid posture. 

They’re being not-so-subtly herded by a group of particularly sour-breathed men in Kentucky, when the roar of engines drown out their filthy propositions.  The biker gang from Georgia stop their bikes in a loose circle around all of them, grinning wide and calling out to them jovially. “Well if it ain’t our Fair Erica! Yer not being bothered by these fine gents? That’d be a real shame, nice girl like you.” 

She smiles back with an expression that promises bloodshed. “Nah, they were just leaving. Weren’t you boys?” 

The lot in front of the gas station clears out so fast there’s cartoon dust-trails. 

Erica turns to the other two and grabs their hands, pleading as she pulls them toward the men. “Come meet my friends, have a beer.” 

Allison looks to Lydia, who shrugs and takes the keys, designating herself as the next driver. The men are all at least fifty, but still look like they could pick up any brawl. Lydia ends up perched in Erica’s lap, fingering through Erica’s hair, and talking nuclear physics with a guy covered in tattoos and a long white beard. He’s impressed with her brain and sharp tongue, and gives her his card, writing down some contacts of professor friends at prestigious colleges on the back.   

Two the men turn out to be hunters, who bought from Allison’s dad back when they lived in Louisiana, before she was born. She’s hesitant to talk shop with them, wanting to forget all about that while away. But they’re friendlier, looser, than her father. They teamed up with a spider-witch once, and ask questions before they shoot. They let their grandkids play with the Nāga kids down the road. She likes them. They can see the bitterness in her eyes and remind her that they do good, and not all hunters are like the one’s she’s seen. That they’re not all like her grandfather and aunt. 

They give her a box of bullets for her handgun, the one she has stashed under the passenger seat, and write their contact details on the side of it. They thump her shoulder and ruffle her hair and tell her to live a little, and if she ever needs help or is thinking of relocating, give them a call. She’s surprised by how sincere she is when she thanks them and says she will. 

The sun is setting bright and brilliant by the time they say good bye.

 

* * *

 

They save a couple of kids in D.C. 

It’s not a big deal.  

(It’s not the first time, either, but they usual skip town before their names get stuck with the story.) 

They only stick around to be interviewed for the national news so their families can see what they’ve been up to. They haven’t been writing as often. It’s easier, the longer they are away, to build their lives and sense of self. Sometimes Erica misses the soft and full feeling of _pack_ , but Allison and Lydia ease the ache enough, more as time passes, that she hardly notices the empty spaces between her ribs where her pack used to sit.

Hardly half an hour after the first broadcast, Erica’s phone lights up. It’s Isaac. She doesn’t answer, but when Derek’s text comes in immediately after, she cries.

_‘Proud of you. Come home when you’re ready.’_

 

* * *

 

When they hit New York, they feel significantly different than when they left. Settled and content and hardened, matured a little without losing sight of what’s important about being young.

The anxiety and insecurity of the unknown has left Allison almost completely. 

Lydia’s almost surprised to find that her credit card is still activated, that the bills have been paid on time, the limit extended. There’s more money in her account as well. It’s not a phone call, but it speaks just as loudly.

They book a nice hotel for a solid week. They skip the fancy restaurants and find the dingy diners and hole-in-the-wall cafes, the overlooked places with homemade food and secret family recipes. Often down in China Town as well. Allison teases Lydia for how far her standards have fallen. But it’s become habit. A warm, cramped vinyl booth with sticky menus and bottomless drinks. It’s become familiar and intimate. It’s become a bit like home. 

Lydia gets her back by dragging them on a three day shopping excursion at all the big name stores and boutiques. 

Erica insists they visit The Strand, and the other two aren’t exactly complaining. It’s like an adventure. A reward for all the adventuring and risk-taking they’ve already done. They stopped counting the days weeks ago, but it’s been a long time.

They play in the parks and visit the touristy sites and corners, they hit all the brochure points. 

But soon their week is almost up. Lydia whisks into their hotel room with bags and long boxes. She presents them with designer dresses and disgustingly expensive jewelry and wild shoes. “Courtesy of my oh-so-generous parents,” she sings, and they spend six hours getting ready. 

Somehow they get reservations for a nice restaurant, _a really nice one._ One of those places that doesn’t list prices and everything is in French. It’s different, and not what either of the other two are used to. But culture is good, exploration is good. So they adopt their best accents and hang off Lydia’s arm like sex and take it all in stride.

When their main courses arrive, they drop the fronts and watch each other with wide, unguarded eyes. Erica looks a little sad, and Allison torn. Lydia’s happy. She’s glad she came and glad they’re here now and has multiple contingency plans for whatever fits with the other girls.  

“What’s the plan?” Allison finally asks. 

“I don’t know, you tell us, great tactician.” Lydia bats her eyelashes, and Allison touches her foot under the table.

“I’m taking over the business.” 

Her announcement stuns them into silence. Lydia’s surprised, where as Erica is elated to the point she’s drawing snooty attention. 

“Great! I was hoping you’d say that, because I should get back to the pack. And now, not only will we still be together, you and the hunters can work _with_ us, it’ll be fabulous. Maybe I’ll beat the shit out of Derek and steal his Alpha powers. It’ll be like a fairytale. The hunter and the big bad wolf and little red.” 

Lydia barks out a single laugh without humor, drawing more attention to their table, but they’ve really stopped trying at this point anyways. “I’d like to see you try.” 

Erica growls playfully and Allison tries to shush her through her own giggling, almost crying and her eyeliner smudging just a little underneath. Lydia’s never thought she looked so beautiful. 

Allison sobers abruptly, eyeing Lydia. “What about you? I know you’ve always wanted to leave California far behind.” 

Lydia doesn’t look at her as she picks at her food. “And so I have. There are more important things in life than test scores and letterman jackets, after all. Berkley will be tripping over themselves to have me.” 

 “So, it’s decided then? We’re all going back after all?” Allison can’t bite back her grin, and something warm and safe takes root in her chest.

Erica nods, sucking her spoon clean in a way that’s far passed obscene. “But I don’t want to drive through the states again. Been there, done that, yawn. Let’s go back through Canada.” 

“I suppose,” Lydia says with a put upon sigh. “If we must.” 

Allison excuses herself and steps outside. 

She calls her dad.


End file.
